


Justice Be Thy Plea

by MlleMusketeer



Series: The Quality of Mercy: Supplemental Materials [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alien Biology, Diplomacy, Fluff, Imperialism, In Which Megatron Is The New Mom At The Park, M/M, Politics, Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertron is at peace and rebuilding, and Optimus Prime seeks to gain his world representation on the Galactic Council.</p><p>Meanwhile, the Quintessons eye Cybertron with the hope of reconquering their lost colony.</p><p>And Megatron is stuck babysitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A whole bunch of the alien species do not belong to me and are from the Star Trek expanded universe, particularly the Nasat and the Denebians. Not mine, theirs.

A gavel thumped three times, the crack of stone against stone. The presiding delegate—Deneb IV’s delegate, this term at least—glared around the chamber with what seemed like hundreds of stalked optics, all of them blinking at random. 

It would have given Ultra Magnus fits.

Megatron wasn’t altogether sure he would blame the mech.

“All rise,” the presiding delegate called, her voice needing no amplification. “The three thousand and seventy fifth special session of the Galactic Council is now in session. You may be seated.”

Megatron somehow kept the irritation out of his field at the show of power. 

_It’s procedure,_ said Optimus over comms. _No insult is intended._

Megatron glanced down at his side where Tritogenia nestled in alt mode, only her helm transformed so she could watch the rest of the room. Her optics were wide with interest—she’d had exposure to humans before, but never this many other species. It was a merciful distraction. 

_I will forgive them as long as they do not disturb her,_ he sent. _She has been fussing enough over the vocalizer upgrades._

“Chee,” said Tritogenia. Not with her vocalizer—that was well out of commission as it reconfigured itself into something capable of adult speech—but by rubbing her pedipalps against her cheek guards. She’d lose those once her intake and vocalizer had finished upgrading, and wouldn’t _that_ be fun. Thirteen miserable sparklings all itching in molt and Tritogenia leading the chorus. 

With the distance she’d learned to project her field—she’d picked that up from her carrier, he was certain of it—it was a slagged good thing that most of the delegates couldn’t pick up on EM fields, or the three thousand and seventy-fifth Galactic Council would be interrupted by the empathic equivalent of wailing.

_Ratchet and Soundwave must be going through Pit._

“The matter before the Council is as follows: the sovereign planet of Cybertron and its resident species petition to be removed from the list of embargoed and unsupported worlds.”

Optimus did not puff up with pride. That was a Starscream thing to do. Instead, his field lit with private satisfaction. He’d been working for this a long, long time.

Megatron smirked. Across the room, a few of the honorable delegates looked like they had rust lodged in their intakes, notably the most honorable delegate from Quintessa. If there was anything that made this entire absurd production worthwhile, it was watching _all five_ faces contort as the delegate tried to appear civil.

“The Council now opens the floor to arguments. The Cybertronian people may present its case.”

Optimus rose and stepped out of their box and onto the floor, voice amplified as his pedes crossed the inlaid line between the seating and the center of the chamber. “Gentlebeings, I thank you for your presence and your consideration. It is my pleasure to announce that we have met the Council’s initial requirements for consideration of a reprieve: our government is stable, the peace secure, and Cybertron itself has met and surpassed the infrastructure and resource levels of a Class 7 planet. Therefore, I wish to submit a petition on the part of the Cybertronian people for readmittance to the Council. We assure the gentlebeings of the Council that we will be able to meet the requirements and duties of…”

It was revolting. Bowing and scraping to the Council, a useless and uncaring entity? Where had the Council been when mecha starved in the streets? They turned their backs on their member worlds with impunity. Cybertron had fallen from favor, been ignored, and the commerce that had kept the spacebridges alight had dried up, leaving their world to stagnate and die.

The only attention the Council had given Cybertron was blacklisting it as soon as the rebellion gathered way.

Tritogenia, picking up on her sire’s mood, began to fuss again, field spiking with unhappiness as she chittered. He reined his field in and stilled her with a hand across her shoulders. After a few moments, she settled and went back to looking at the aliens.

He’d objected strenuously to bringing her as well.

* * *

 

“Are you mad?” he’d demanded of Optimus. “She’s a sparkling, and she’s upgrading. She’ll be bored out of her processor—I doubt the Council will welcome the attendance of a fussing bitlet.”

“It is one of the requirements of our attendance,” Optimus said. “The bitlets have already attended meetings of the planetary council with us. This will be little different.”

“The others will be upset.”

“Soundwave and Ratchet will keep them distracted,” said Optimus. “I believe an outing is planned.”

Megatron bristled. “This is absurd.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Optimus. “Tritogeniea’s presence is a _requirement_ , not a request. The Council is largely organic. For many of their cultures, bondings of state and first-emerged offspring are very important, if not currently then at least historically.”

“I thought the Council considered itself advanced, not barbarically interested in reproduction.”

“They consider us barbaric enough,” said Optimus mildly, “that they require Tritogeneia’s presence as proof of our truce, something they believe we view as more binding than the legal agreement. We can only play along. If it settles your mind at all, many of the delegates are also progenitors.”

“You’re playing at something,” said Megatron, glad that the sparklings were out of audial-shot. “Don’t think I can’t tell, Prime. So tell me, what’s so vital that you feel no compunction in using our bitlets as political pawns?”

“Troop movements over the Quintesson border have increased thirty percent in the last year,” said Optimus. “Say as you will, Megatron, but our own military forces are much depleted, and we will not withstand an attack at this point. The Council will grant us a greater measure of protection.”

Megatron stared at him in offended shock. “And you believe this justifies dragging our sparkling into that mess?”

“She will be in no danger.” Optimus looked up at him over the edge of the datapad that contained his speech. “I am surprised that you find this so offensive; you have, after all, been teaching the bitlets to fight.”

“The bitlets will _need_ to know how to defend themselves,” said Megatron, settling himself on the edge of the berth. “Just because we are no longer at war is no reason to allow them to be helpless. This—this is _politics_.”

“Only another way of defending oneself,” said Optimus. “We must keep the Council on our side, Megatron. We cannot afford to be further alienated.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nicked the Nasat from Star Trek. They are not my own invention.

 

He started having the feeling that there was something Optimus was not telling him when the session adjourned to allow its members to refuel and attend to organic requirements. Tritogenia swarmed down off him before they’d made it three paces past the chamber doors, and only a very fast grab kept her from bolting at unseemly speed for the viewing port on the other side of the hallway. 

This was a bad idea, and he fully intended to tell Optimus exactly that, if his wayward bonded was anywhere to be seen.

Tritogeneia was trying to drag him by main force over to the viewing port, tiny pedes scrabbling at the smooth floor, cheeping insistently. Megatron ex-vented, with a last glare around for Optimus, and followed. 

Once there, he pulled two cubes of energon out of his subspace, one smaller and specially modified to prevent spills even with larval mouthparts—organics did not, after all, react well to energon—and handed it to Tritogenia, who clicked her pedipalps in approval and climbed up to the sill of the viewport so she could watch the ships. Megatron kept a firm hand on her dorsal struts; he doubted that the Galactic Council would understand if their progeny trampled some delegate out of excitement.

“She looks just like you,” said a voice, and he looked down to see a very large isopod, bright green and reared up on its last four legs. It held a cup with some organic fluid in it in one of its top appendages. Black compound optics shifted uncannily to regard him, set under long antennae that gave the impression of impressive optic ridges.  “How old is she?”

The conversion of Cybertronian solar cycles to galactic standard years took a moment. “Ten of your years,” he said, and caught the half-full cube with the ease of long practice as Tritogenia slipped down off the sill to examine the new arrival. She hardly came up to its fifth pair of legs. “I believe we have not been introduced.”

“I am T6-Green, the delegate for Nasat.” Antennae wiggled in something that Megatron supposed to be amusement.  “Lord Protector Megatron, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” said Megatron, with a tilt of his helm. Another alien hovered on the edge of the conversation, an organic biped, apparently female. She was almost as large as him, and he knew organic expressions well enough to read amusement on her face. There was a male just behind her, some very similar species. A quick glance around the room showed him people migrating gently in his direction, even the presiding delegate with all her eyes pointing the same direction for once. 

He subspaced the cubes and caught Tritogenia by the dorsal struts again. Where the slag was Optimus?

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said T6-Green. “Your mate’s persistence and diplomatic ability is impressive, and he has spoken often of you.” Optics shifted to Tritogenia. “And you too.”

“Chee.” Tritogenia looked gravely up at him and extended a hand, human-style.

The delegate looked surprised, then tentatively offered one of his own. Tritogenia shook—she’d been practicing gentleness with the humans—then, losing interest, looked up at the biped.

T6 looked to Megatron for clarification.

“A human custom,” Megatron said. “Acquired on our visits to Earth.”

“She is wonderfully behaved,” said the biped, bending to be on a level with Tritogenia. “Does she have siblings?”

“Twelve littermates,” said Megatron, and smirked when all the beings in the audience capable of gestating shuddered. 

“You poor thing,” said the biped. “One was bad enough.”

“Oh, we have associate caretakers,” said Megatron. At the general blank looks, he added, “It is customary for us to ask close friends to aid us in caring for our sparklings. When they bear their own, we will return the favor.”

“How charming!” said the biped. “What’s her name?”

“Tritogeniea,” said Megatron. 

“How old is she?”

“She has another molt before she will be able to scan a proper alt mode,” said Megatron. “Her paint is beginning to come in, though.” Tritogeneia preened, showing off the faint blues and purples of her paint visible through her exuviae. “She has another century or so before she is fully adult.”

“She’s beautiful,” said the biped, and rose. “Pardon me. I believe I’m needed.”

Megatron took the opportunity to look around for Optimus; not an easy task, as many of the beings in the room were on a level with him. He thought he saw a glimpse of red and blue paint over by the organic fuel in the opposite corner of the room, but was distracted by a question from one of the beings around him, something about Tritogenia’s behavior.

Most of the recess passed like that, with assorted beings cooing and asking questions, and Megatron marveled at the idiocy a sparkling inspired in members of so called ‘advanced’ species. The worst had to be the scaly tetrapod who leaned down and cooed, “So are you going to grow up and be a diplomat like your daddy, sweetheart?” displaying a complete ignorance of recent Cybertronian history that stole the atmosphere from Megatron’s vents. The _least_ of Optimus Prime’s distinctions was diplomatic. 

“Unlike her parents,” he said, “She will be able to be anything she wishes when she finishes her final upgrades.”

“Oh yes, the war.” The tetrapod backed off. Megatron huffed an annoyed ventilation and turned his attention back to his sparkling and his fuel.


	3. Chapter 3

Tritogenia was all but asleep by the time the Quintesson delegate made his way over to Megatron. 

Megatron looked around for Optimus and did not see him, repressed the urge to flare his armor defensively, and plastered an expression of forced civility on his faceplate. Tritogenia cheeped at him, a question in her field, and Megatron flared his own in response, an order. She blinked, then flipped into alt and scurried around his back. 

Megatron did not let the relief of having her out of the Quintesson’s sight overtake him. “Delegate,” he said, carefully courteous. The Quintessons that made contact with the rest of the universe did not like to be addressed by anything but their titles. 

“Lord Megatron,” said the Delegate, pleased. “I must congratulate you on your peace, your mate, and your children. This one seems particularly healthy, a robust flightframe, if I am correct. No less than I would expect from such a union as yours. How proud your world must be, to boast such impressive progeny.”

Megatron’s armor fanned out. The Delegate’s words were far too close to those of the past, when Cybertronians were chattel and bred like beasts, their only distinction the products of their gestational tanks or bought at the price of terrible humiliation. “I advise the Delegate to keep his remarks professional,” he said with great deliberation. “Or I in turn shall grow unprofessional.”

“You continue to fight a war that is long over, Lord Megatron,” said the Delegate, and the mouths on his many faces turned up at the corners, an attempt at a smile. “We are peaceful now; there is no hatred between Cybertron and Quintessa but what you choose to create.”

“What I choose to create?” Megatron bared his dentae. “That is a very different story than the one you told the last time we met, Delegate. I believe you informed me that I had _no_ choice, that I was a machine to do your bidding.”

The Delegate blanched and moved backward with a slither of tentacles.

“We’ve both come far from that day, _Interrogator_ ,” said Megatron. “A long, long way, and I have a good memory for faces. So as for the hatred between Cybertron and Quintessa, I advise you to tread carefully.”

“You’re not going to win,” said the Delegate. He appeared composed again, but there was a cold glitter in the many eyes. “You may remember our war. But many of the species here are more short-lived than us, and they remember _your_ war, the civil war Cybertron waged across galaxies, and the dead planets you left in your path. They’ll only remember how quiet, how _manageable_ Cybertron was under our rule. Those who lost worlds will be glad of a Quintesson stewardship, because _we can manage you_.”

“But you can’t,” said Megatron, and bared his dentae at the Quintesson. “You know that better than anyone.”

“We have other tools,” said the Delegate.

Tritogenia’s field fluctuated alarm and fear and she chittered. Megatron stopped in mid-gesture.

“You’ve upset her,” said a new voice, and Megatron glanced up. The biped was there, her attention focused on the Quintesson—a far from benevolent regard. T6 glided up beside her.

“Cybertronian young _always_ fuss at that age,” said the Delegate, flicking a tentacle. 

The aliens looked at Megatron. He shook his helm.

“Interesting,” said the biped. Tritogenia’s chittering increased in volume. Megatron reached back to comfort her, and found she’d wedged herself into a gap between his plating that he most certainly couldn’t reach with her there inhibiting the movement of the plates. He exvented heavily. 

The Delegate, after a few carefully veiled condescending remarks, made a tactical retreat.

“Is she scared of him?” asked the biped.

“Yes,” said Megatron, not pleased with admitting it. “It’s an instinctive reaction in our young.”

“She seemed fine with everyone else.”

“Exactly,” said Megatron. There was a movement along the line of his back.

“Why?”

“For the same reason that the Quintessons desire to have stewardship of our world,” said Megatron. 

“Your species—”

“Have a long and ugly history,” said Megatron. “I fought in the first war to win our freedom. I do not wish to see my mate and brood go into the same slavery that I onlined in.” That was putting it mildly, but if he voiced his true sentiments, the biped would leave. 

“Typical,” said T6. “The Quintessons are getting far too ambitious. It’s time we reined them in. There was that incident last month with Bajor, after all.”

“Bajor?”

“Just won its independence from another empire. Nasty business. Infastructure’s in shambles. So’s pretty much everything else. Quintessons wanted a ‘stewardship’ and wouldn’t give us details.”

“They were refused,” said the biped. “Good thing too.”

“Yes,” said Megatron. “Particularly if they are entering another expansionist era.”

Before they could ask for clarification, the session chime rang, calling them back to their places. Megatron grumbled, checked that all of Tritogenia’s things were in the correct subspace, and went in search of Optimus.

He found him back in their section in the Council Room, poring over a datapad. “I see you and Tritogenia did well,” he said.

Megatron snorted, and tried to coax Tritogenia off his back and onto Optimus’s arm. “Save for the Quint.”

“Language,” said Optimus.

“He cannot hear us,” said Megatron. “Look how badly he scared her. She won’t transform back.” _I hope it was worthwhile, dragging our daughter into this mess,_ he sent over comms.

“Cheee,” said Tritogenia mournfully. 

_More so than you think,_ sent Optimus. _Tritogenia may have saved Cybertron. You two did important and good work today, Megatron. Thanks to you, they no longer see us as a threat._

_Wonderful. Exactly what I’ve been working for all my existence,_ Megatron retorted, tagging it with every permutation of sarcasm-glyphs.

_Enough. They’re starting. The Quintesson Delagate will make the last speech before the Council puts it to the final vote._

_We won’t abide by that vote, will we?_

_Let us hope that it does not come to that,_ sent Optimus, and looked at the speaking floor. 

 


End file.
